


An Immodest Proposal

by yeats



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Proposal Fusion, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Proposal!AU, Tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 09:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2576660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeats/pseuds/yeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hotshot literary editor David Villa's career is on the verge of collapse, but he's come up with a way to save it: by marrying his long-suffering assistant. </p><p>(Or, David Villa and David Silva meet "The Proposal.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acchikocchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is an in-progress birthday fic for my darling mer, aka [acchikocchi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi/pseuds/acchikocchi), who is not only awesome and lovely, but also the only person on earth who could ever get me to write fic about david villa. i'm posting the first bit now, both as a present for her after a really hard few months and as motivation for myself to keep writing.

_Of all David Villa's world-class qualities, perhaps most unexpected is his humility. RFEF's youngest-ever senior editor and the recently announced Spanish Editor of the Year, as selected by the Royal Publisher's Guild, has racked up an unprecedented number of professional accomplishments in his short career: eleven consecutive titles at the top of the Spanish bestseller list, exclusive translation rights to three winners of the Man Booker Prize as well as the last recipient of the Nobel Prize for Literature….. One could go on and on. But these achievements, Villa insists, stem not from the innate skill of a savant or a Mensa prodigy, but rather the hard work befitting the only son of a humble coal-miner. What may look to outsiders like a meteoric rise to the top of the literary scene has really been a slow, dogged climb over the course of a decade, characterized by ceaseless dedication and--_

"Wait, what is this?" 

David stops reading aloud mid-sentence. He looks across his desk to where his assistant is staring at him with mouth agape. 

"Really?" he says, rolling his eyes. "I just told you, the PR department asked me to help them with a biography for the press release about the Editor of the Year thing." He tries to sound blasé about it, but the airy, expansive excitement that's been pushing out from his stomach and lungs all morning seeps into his tone anyway. He glances at the formal letter on his desk with its embossed seal and bites back a smile. 

"You can't submit this," Silva says, almost desperately.

"It's a draft," David says. "Obviously. That's why you're here -- I figured, since you're so keen on being a real editor, I'd give you a chance to start with something small."

Silva's eyes go sharp at that, the corners of his mouth tightening. It's no secret that he's eager to branch out from his role as David's assistant and handle manuscripts of his own; he's been dancing around mentioning it for months. 

When Silva first started working as his assistant, David was convinced that HR was playing a joke on him: the kid looked about nineteen, and so soft-spoken that he might as well have been mute. David hadn't expected him to make it through the week, and had in fact told him as much. "I need a pitbull here, not a church mouse," he'd said, after the third time Silva had apologized for mixing up paperwork.

He still remembers the fire in Silva's eyes, the unexpected heat in his voice when he promised David that he was up to the task. "I want this job, Mr. Villa," he'd said. "I can be what you need." 

And over the intervening three years, David's watched with no small surprise as Silva has turned himself into exactly that: a highly competent, no-nonsense worker with a good eye for the business and a hunger to prove himself. He still doesn't look like he's aged a day, and his newfound tenacity is accompanied by a frustrating refusal to be intimidated by David, but overall he's become an indispensable asset -- which is a problem, since he's clearly too smart to answer David's phones and manage his calendar forever. But after all the hassle that David went through to groom Silva in the first place, he's not going to let him go so easily. 

Maybe it's a dick move. Scratch that -- it's definitely a dick move. But David didn't get to where he is today by being Mother fucking Theresa.

He holds out the sheets of paper, shaking it a little like a toy for a dog. "I mean, unless that's not something you're interested in anymore --"

Silva snatches the draft with hungry fingers, and pulls a red pen out of his pocket. His brows knit as he goes to work; within moments, it looks like someone has spilled a tub of red ink onto the page.

"Hey!" David protests. "No big changes -- just edit for clarity and brevity."

Silva snorts. "What about editing for you sounding like an arrogant sociopath?" 

"The whole first paragraph is about how humble I am!" 

"Bragging about being humble is a clear sign that you aren't." Silva sounds far too much like a fortune cookie this early in the morning.

David glares at him. "I liked you better when you were afraid of me," he grouses. "Where's my coffee?"

"It's right next to you, on your desk. And I was never afraid of you," Silva says absently. "I just thought you wanted me to act like I was." 

David isn't sure what to say to that. He grabs his coffee, and takes a deep gulp without looking. Luckily, Silva always gets his order right: black, one sugar. Although there are about a million more pressing issues that warrant his attention, he leans back and takes a moment to watch Silva as silently mouths each word of the text to himself, his brows knit in concentration. He circles a line, then scratches out his circling, flips to the second page and makes a note in the margin. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. 

David's skin starts to itch. His last promotion landed him a brand new office, with floor-to-ceiling windows and plenty of space, but all of a sudden it feels too cramped for both him and Silva. The scratching sound of Silva's pen drills needles into David's forehead. 

"Take that back to your desk." His voice is sharper than he intended, but by now Silva's used to his moods, and takes it in stride.

He stands, gathering the papers to his chest. "Sánchez is outside -- you had a meeting scheduled with him at nine-thirty?"

"Did you leave me his personnel file?"

"Next to your coffee," Silva says.

"Make him wait ten more minutes, and then send him in."

"Of course." Silva goes to leave, but pauses at the door. "Thank you for this opportunity," he says. His eyes are wide and sincere, like a cartoon deer's. It's fucking irritating. "I promise I won't let you down." 

David doesn't dignify the sentiment with a response. "PR wants to send out the press release with a full publicity campaign on Monday afternoon. Coordinate everything with them, and have a copy of the final draft by nine AM Monday morning."

Silva frowns. "But this weekend is my grandmother's ninetieth birthday. I'm going home to celebrate with my family. You told me I could have a three-day weekend, remember?"

"And now I'm telling you that you need to deal with this," David says slowly. "Send her a card and a box of cigars."

"She's about to turn ninety!" 

"Two boxes of cigars, then." David waves a hand. "You can charge them to my card, if you promise not to bother me about it again."

Silva glares at him. For a moment, David thinks he's about to protest further, but Silva's smarter than that. 

"Yes, sir," he says through gritted teeth, and leaves, shutting the door hard enough behind him that it rattles on its hinges.

David rolls his eyes. He can only imagine the outpouring of sympathy that Silva's hissy fit will elicit from the bullpen. From what he's gathered, the other assistants regard David as a cross between Miranda Priestly and Joseph Stalin, the boss from hell who enjoys torturing his underlings for fun. It doesn't help that Silva is wildly popular among his coworkers; David learned as much one day last year when he arrived to work and found Silva's desk completely covered in cards, flowers and balloons for what turned out to be his birthday. 

(He'd ended up sneaking out during lunch to find Silva a gift -- not an easy task considering their neighborhood was mostly high-rise office buildings. Still, the delighted smile on Silva's face when David presented him with a monographed tie clip admittedly made up for the hassle.)

"Hey, boss! You said you wanted to see me?" Alexis Sánchez sticks his head inside, interrupting David's thoughts. "Congratulations on the award, by the way -- what an honor!"

As usual, his obsequious attitude and faux camaraderie sets David's teeth on edge. He's an associate editor, which means he's really just a molten core of seething ambition in a suit and tie. Which, fine. David respects that kind of hustle. But whereas others in his position are refreshingly direct about wanting his job, Sánchez insists on officious flattery and saccharine kindness. It's fucking annoying, and David already has more than enough annoyances in his life.

"Take a seat," David says, and then thinks better of it: "Actually, don't bother; this isn't going to take long. You're fired."

Sánchez, caught half-sitting and half-standing, pauses in a ridiculous crouch. "What?" he squawks. 

David takes a sip of his coffee. Dealing with incompetence always leaves him parched. "Three weeks ago, I told you to get Álvaro Arbeloa to sign off on a reading tour for his new book. Two weeks ago, we had a strategy meeting where I underlined how critical this tour would be to ensure that we meet our sales target. Last week, you told me that it was impossible, that Arbeloa was out of commission for the foreseeable future."

"It's true!" protests Sánchez. "I've been trying and trying to convince him, but he won't budge. He's been having personal issues with his boyfriend, and he wants to stay at home and work them out --"

"That's funny," David says. "Because I talked to him last night, and he said you'd only ever sent him a single email. You didn't even call him to follow up."

Sánchez freezes. 

"He's in, by the way," David adds, almost offhandedly. "And you're out."

"But that's -- I don't understand -- " 

David sighs. "Of course you don't. That's your whole problem. I gave you this assignment as an opportunity to prove yourself. Your acquisition record was solid and your sales figures were good, but I wanted to see how you could handle the big stage. And what did you do? At the slightest challenge, you fell to the ground and gave up."

Sánchez's face has gone red and splotchy. A line of sweat droplets bead his upper lip. "If you'd just give me another chance..."

"Second chances are for reality tv stars and game show contestants," David says. "This is a publishing house, not a rehab clinic. I'll give you until the end of the month to find a new position, at which point we'll say you resigned. With a sparkling resume like yours, I'm sure you won't have any trouble finding work."

"Oh, and you'd know all about sparkling resumes, don't you?" Sánchez's voice takes on a new, ugly undercurrent.

"What's that supposed to mean?" David's hand creeps towards his intercom. He wishes he'd thought to have Silva to sit in on this meeting; others seem to find him comforting in trying situations. David assumes it's because he exudes the same earnest competence as a junior lifeguard, or a treasurer of a university chess club -- while David, meanwhile, has been (not inaccurately) compared to 'a robot that runs on coffee, hair gel and lingering inferiority complex'...by the last person he'd slept with.

Stripped away of his usual supercilious bullshit, Sánchez rounds on him. "David Hot-Shot Villa," he sneers. "Mister Spanish Editor of the Year. You think we're so different, that all your fancy awards make you better than me."

David can feel anger building in his chest, blistering heat in his veins. It's the same feeling he used to get when he was little after his family had moved, the smallest kid on the playground with funny clothes and a funny accent. Back then, he had solved his problems with his feet, beating the other boys at football until they took him seriously -- or if that failed to sway them, with his fists, beating them for real.

Unfortunately, neither option is possible right now, so he takes a deep breath, and hits the call button. "I think," he says, voice painstakingly calm, "that the reason I _get_ fancy awards is because I'm better than you."

"No, you're not," Sánchez snarls. "And I'm going to make sure that everyone knows it. I'm going to make sure they know _exactly who you really are."_

David can't help himself -- he cracks up. It's just so fucking melodramatic, like something out of a rejected manuscript from their slush pile. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I know things," Sánchez says, in what David's sure is supposed to be an ominous voice. 

"It's too bad how to be good at your job isn't one of them," David says. As if on cue, the door swings open to reveal Silva, flanked by two security guards. 

"Is everything all right?" Silva looks between David and Sánchez, his eyes worried.

"Everything's fine," David reassures him. "Alexis was just leaving us. Weren't you, Alexis?"

With one last black glare, Sánchez storms out. The guards exchange an uncertain look and follow him, leaving David and Silva alone.

"What happened?" Silva asks. 

"Amateur fucking theater hour." David shakes his head. "Clear my schedule for the rest of the morning, and hold all my calls. I need to go over the entire publicity campaign for Arbeloa's new book again, top to bottom."

"But I thought that Alexis was -- " At David's look, Silva stops himself. "Of course." 

David goes to take another sip of his coffee, winces to find that it's gone cold. "And Silva -- "

"Another coffee," Silva finishes for him.

"And soon," David says. He's not sure how, given how well it started, but it's certainly turning into one of those days.

\--

The third time Silva buzzes his intercom in fifteen minutes, David slams the side of his palm down on the 'accept' button. His award letter flutters up at the disturbance, the gilded seal glinting.

"What did I say about holding all my calls?" David snaps. Ever since Sánchez's swerve into comic book villain territory two hours ago, he's had the beginnings of a tension headache building up at his temples like a late summer thunderstorm.

"I know. I'm sorry -- it's just, it's Mr. del Bosque. He wants to see you immediately in his office."

And just like that, the lurking headache clouds melt away. Vincente del Bosque, President of RFEF Publishing, is a living legend in the Spanish publishing world. Almost single-handedly, he'd managed to reverse a long tradition of underperformance by domestic publishers by cultivating a stable of talented writers and editors who all believed in a common idea: that words could change the world more than money or bombs ever could. He's one of the main reasons David got into publishing in the first place -- as well as why he'd left his last job without a second thought to come to RFEF.

He glances down at his letter, and smiles. It looks like the old man just got the news.

"Tell him I'm on my way," he says, and pushes his chair back.

Silva's waiting for him outside his office door. "Del Bosque's assistant said he just got off the phone with the board of directors." He looks as composed as ever, but there's a spark in his eye, a slight grin curving his lips like an open parenthesis. "Ready to be crowned with a laurel wreath and immortalized in verse?"

"And to think I left my good toga at the dry cleaner's," David smirks.

The warm peal of Silva's laughter stays with him all the way upstairs to the corporate floor.

At the door to del Bosque's office he's met by Hierro, del Bosque's assistant. "He's waiting for you," he says, before David can get a word out. From his tone, David can tell that he's isn't pleased with the last-minute addition to his boss's schedule. Hierro's a bit of a hard-ass like that.

On any other day, David would be careful not to antagonize del Bosque's right hand man -- plenty of people have been fired for less. Today, though, he just winks. 

"Not anymore," he says, and strides inside.

Del Bosque's office has always reminded David of something out of a sci-fi film: all sleek chrome and minimalist furniture. His desk is clear, cut from a single piece of glass, and the chairs in front of it resemble like giant lime-green eggs. Even the chess set that stands on its own side table, always in a state of mid-play, looks more like the controls of a spaceship. The only anachronisms that break the incessant futurism are the rows of bookshelves that line the back wall on either side of the door.

Del Bosque is standing, a thick book in hand. "Ah, David," he says solemnly. "Thank you for coming to speak with us." 

"Of course, sir. It's always a -- " David stops. "Us?"

"Yo, bro." 

One of the egg chairs swivels around to reveal Pepe Reina, the company's chief counsel. His bald head matches the top of the chair perfectly.

David blinks. "Hey," he says. Normally, he'd be overjoyed to see Pepe; they've known each other since university and it was on Pepe's recommendation that he applied for the position of senior editor at RFEF when it opened up. Among the small (David prefers the word "exclusive") number of people whom David considers his friends, Pepe is probably the closest. He was expecting Pepe to show up at his office as soon as he heard about the award, brandishing a bottle of celebratory tequila -- not to be sitting in del Bosque's office, his normally jovial features schooled to match the old man's grave expression.

"Is everything okay?" David asks.

Pepe and del Bosque exchange a look. 

"That's what we're hoping to resolve," del Bosque says. "About an hour ago, we received a letter--"

"From the Royal Publisher's Guild," David cuts in, "yeah, I know. They sent me one, too. Don't worry, though -- I'm not going to try and force you guys to give me a raise just because I'm Editor of the Year." He pitches his voice to make it clear that he's joking, but neither of them laugh. 

"It was a letter from a recently terminated employee," del Bosque continues. "Alexis Sánchez. He alleges that your receipt of the title of Spanish Editor of the Year rests on certain falsehoods."

David rolls his eyes. Fucking Sánchez and his fucking revenge scheme. This was more pathetic than he would have thought possible. Firing the guy was clearly an even better idea than he had thought; David was glad to know his instincts were as sharp as ever. "Let me guess -- he says he knows a bunch of terrible things I've done, but he won't tell you exactly what they are unless we rehire him." 

"He says you're not a Spanish citizen," says del Bosque.

At first David isn't sure he's heard correctly. The disjuncture between del Bosque's ominous tone and his words is so great that David doesn't know how to respond. He waits, expecting something actually incriminating to follow -- but Pepe and del Bosque are both silent, watching him.

"I -- know?" he says. "I have a permanent resident card, I'm entitled to stay as long as I want. I just never filled out the citizenship papers because it seemed like too much of a hassle." He looks between them. "I never lied about any of this; it's all in my official files."

"We know you didn't lie to us, _guaje_ ," Pepe says gently. "But it's called the Spanish Editor of the Year for a reason. And according to the letter, you're not actually Spanish."

For the first time that David can remember, he's speechless. He feels like a cartoon character who's run out over a cliff and has only just realized, his legs windmilling in the air above an open drop, hundreds of feet down.

"This is _nuts_ ," he says desperately. "I've lived here almost my whole life -- my dad was a mining engineer and he moved us to Asturias from Chile when I was just a kid…." 

And then he remembers Sánchez's sneering reference to Villa's resume, his insistence that they were alike -- Sánchez, who had come to RFEF promising to apply his international market experience to the company, who had spent the previous five years working in Italy, but whose personnel file listed his birthplace as Tocopilla, Chile.

David looks up to find del Bosque and Pepe staring at him.

"I didn't even apply for the damn thing in the first place," David says. "They just sent me the letter - I didn't even know I was nominated."

"We know," says del Bosque. "We've been going through your HR paperwork -- it's all in order. And the RPG is a self-selecting awards committee."

"Apparently they just assumed that an editor of your calibre and credentials couldn't possibly be anything but a loyal son of Spain." Pepe's mouth twists into a rueful smile.

"So it's their fuck-up, not mine. They can take it back, problem solved."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple, my boy," del Bosque says, frowning. "Mr. Sánchez's letter arrived several hours after the announcement letter. The board of directors was overjoyed to hear about your accomplishment -- and by extension, the company's accomplishment. I'm not sure how much I could protect you in the face of the negative publicity that would inevitably ensue from you declining."

"So I either lose the award, or lose my job." David's headache breaks in one long wave. He sinks down into the chair besides Pepe, and rubs at his temples. "Jesus. Well, can't I just go down to the _Registro Civil_ and get my citizenship today?"

"Unfortunately, no," Pepe says. "You can apply right away, but with the financial crisis, the government has drastically limited the rate of naturalizations for economic migrants, which is what you'd be classified as now that you're an adult. I've spent the last two hours studying the RPG's by-laws: you can accept the award if your citizenship status is pending, but there's no telling how long that will take."

"And in the meantime?" David can't keep the despair from creeping into his voice.

"I believe I could convince the Board to place you on paid administrative leave, while the facts of your situation resolved themselves," says del Bosque.

"Administrative leave!?" 

"You could always work on your golf swing," Pepe offers.

David gapes. "But I'm _David Villa_!"

Pepe pats his knee. "And you're going to make a hell of a plaintiff in a civil discrimination suit, however this thing shakes out."

David chokes off what he suspects would have been a scream.

A knock at the door. David lifts his head. With his luck, it's probably the police, come to arrest him on yet more trumped-up bullshit.

"Excuse me, sirs." Silva ducks inside. He looks just as eager as he did when David last saw him, and it makes David's head hurt even worse. "I have an urgent phone call for Mr. Villa." 

"Now's _really_ not a good time," David says. 

"No, I know, it's just that Mr. Arbeloa called about his speaking engagement schedule for the book tour, and he said that -- "

"Young man," del Bosque huffs, drawing himself up, "this is an urgent matter. Mr. Villa doesn't have time to talk about speaking engagements at a time like this."

A bolt of inspiration hits David. (He makes a mental note to strike that particular cliche off his list of automatic rejection-worthy manuscript sins.)

"Wait!" 

He leaps out of his chair, narrowly avoiding bashing his head on the ridiculous domed top. Crossing the room, he grabs Silva's hand and drags him back.

"Silv - David," he says, in what he hopes is a tender and compassionate tone. "It's time."

Silva looks as though he's not sure whether to be more confused by David calling him by his first name, or by their fingers tangled together. "Time?" he says, utter baffled. 

"Yes. It is," David presses. "I know you said you didn't want this to affect our working relationship, but there's no helping it -- _trust me_." 

He fixes Silva with a look, trying to telegraph the truth of his last two words, at least. Then, he turns to del Bosque and Pepe:

"I'm not a citizen yet, but I will be soon… because we're engaged to be married."

\--

At that moment, David realizes there's another clichéd phrase whose descriptive accuracy he ought to reconsider: dead silence. 

Everyone else in the room is staring at him: Del Bosque, with rising satisfaction, like a grandmaster presented with an unexpected path to checkmate; Pepe, with skeptical unease. And Silva -- David sneaks a glance out of the corner of his eye. 

Silva looks like he's hit in the head by a football at great speed. 

Pepe recovers first. "You're getting married," he repeats. "To Silva." It's unclear which part of the sentence he finds less believable.

"Yes, we are," David says, with more force. He turns to Silva. "Isn't that right -- ah, sweetie?"

Silva's eyes go even wider than usual. "Um. But we --"

"Don't like bringing our personal life into the office, given the HR implications," David says quickly. "We didn't want anyone to think that the only reason that Silva has kept his job this long was through favoritism -- ah! Sir!"

Silva squeezes his hand hard enough to bruise. David bites back a yelp of pain and shoots him a warning glare, but as usual, Silva isn't cowed -- he opens his mouth to press the issue, the stubborn asshole, so David adds, "Especially since I was going to request authorization to promote him to associate editor, in Sánchez's old job."

That certainly shuts Silva up. He goes frozen at David's side, his face regaining that concussed expression. David improvises, wraps his arm around Silva's waist and tugs him close. Silva lets himself be pulled easily enough and it's -- not the worst thing in the world.

Pepe clearly remains unconvinced, his gaze piercing. David always knew that having friends would come back to bite him in the ass eventually. "Not to put a damper on this touching scene," he says, "but how is any of this relevant to the matter at hand?"

"You said it yourself -- naturalization applications for economic migrants are being processed at a snail's pace," David says, allowing himself another cliché for rhetorical flourish. "But if I'm not applying as an economic migrant, but as the fiancé of a Spanish citizen -- won't that let me skip to the front of the line?"

Pepe sighs. "In theory, yes, but --"

"Then all I need to keep my award, and thus my job, is to register our engagement and get my papers stamped," David says. "Problem solved."

"This is low, Villa -- even by your usual standards," Pepe says.

"It is rather unseemly," del Bosque says, breaking his silence at last. He strokes his mustache. "Bosses and secretaries. Very nineteen-sixties, very retrograde -- not exactly befitting our image as a cutting-edge, modern company. Although I suppose the fact that you're both men does give it a certain twenty-first century edge."

"Welcome to the new normal," David chimes in.

Del Bosque nods. "Quite right. In that case, congratulations to you both."

"Thank you, sir," David says. Beside him, Silva makes a vague noise that could qualify as a 'thanks' as well.

Evidently giving up David as a lost cause, Pepe turns to Silva. "Is any of this even remotely true?" 

"Of course it's --" 

"I was asking Silva," Pepe cuts him off. In a far gentler tone, he says, "Would you like to provide us with an alternative account of your relationship with Mr. Villa?"

This time it's David who squeezes Silva's hand. "Would you, babe?" 

"...No?" Silva's voice is as tremulous as it was on his first day of work.

"See?" David eyes Pepe pointedly. 

"You know," del Bosque says, "A former colleague of mine works for the Ministry of Justice -- I'm sure I could convince him to pull some strings and have the paperwork started today."

"Excellent!" David grins. "Then you can tell the Board that everything's settled."

"Get it done," says del Bosque, "and then I'll handle the Board."

"Of course! I won't let you down. I will put a ring on it, as the kids say. Sir." To his own surprise, David realizes his arm is still wrapped around the warm dip of Silva's waist. Rather than let go, he uses it to his advantage, steering them both out the door and past a gaping Hierro, until they're safely back in the elevator.

As soon as the elevator doors slide shut, Silva pulls away from David and slams his palm against the emergency stop button. 

"Hey!" 

Silva whirls on him. "What the _fuck_ did you just do?" It's the first time David's ever heard him swear.

"I just saved our jobs," David says. "You're welcome, by the way."

" _Our_ jobs?" Silva repeats, just shy of hysterical. 

"Yes, our jobs," David replies testily. "Or do you really think whichever brainless incompetent that replaces me will keep their predecessor's assistant around for more than five minutes? When regimes change, heads roll; that's how it works. And never mind your new promotion, which you've also neglected to thank me for -- the only thing all your hard work will count for is making you first on the chopping block."

He watches Silva's face as the truth of his words sets in, from anger to panic to worry and despair. Usually, David isn't any good at empathy; it's why he prefers books to people. But Silva's emotions are written right on his face, as clear as words on the printed page. It makes David want to -- fix things.

"Look." He takes a deep breath. "It's going to be fine. We just have to meet del Bosque's guy, tell him we're getting married so he'll process my papers, and everything else will work itself out from there. Really, there's no reason for you to get so worried."

"Excuse me if I'm not completely at ease with lying to a government official!" 

"Weren't you listening in there?" David says. "It won't be a lie -- we have to get married, for real. We'll get a quickie divorce, of course, after a year or two, but in the meanwhile, we're -- " he waves a hand. "You know."

Silva glares at him, which at least is an improvement from his previous expression. "What if I told you I was seeing someone."

David stops short. The muscles in his throat seize up, and a sharp stab of pain hits just to the left of his sternum as he thinks about his plan, his whole career being ruined by a mysterious stranger who had the nerve to date his assistant. David can imagine it all too clearly: his name is something insufferable like Cayetano or Esteban and he's "an artist", which means he's either a bartender or a Segway tour guide. He and Silva met through a series of improbable coincidences like characters in a rom-com, and now they're the sort of couple who belong to supper clubs and take mini-breaks to go antiquing and -- 

Wait a second. "Of course you're not seeing anyone. You work sixty hours a week and haven't taken a vacation day in two years. No boyfriend in the world would put up with that." 

"You would know," Silva says, which David magnanimously ignores.

"Moving on. If del Bosque's contact is as dependable as the man himself, we should hear back from him by end of business, if not sooner. Which means that some of the stuff from this morning I had you hold off on takes priority this afternoon, and everything that was supposed to come this afternoon is gonna have to wait until tomorrow. Let's see if -- "

"But you don't you even know if I'm gay!" Silva shouts.

David sighs. He fixes Silva with a long, evaluative look. "Do you _really_ want me answer that?"

For a moment, David is sure Silva's going to hit him. His jaw tightens, lips pressed together so hard that they go white. He takes two short, snorting breaths through his nose like a jumpy racehorse at the starting gate. David's own breath catches in his throat. He's never seen Silva lose control before, and the prospect is both terrifying and thrilling.

In the end, though, all Silva does is reach out and release the emergency stop button. There's a soft whoosh as the elevator begins to descend once more. 

After what David has judged to be a safe interval, he tries again. "So, this afternoon --"

"I'm going to need you to not talk to me for a few hours," Silva says.

Which, all things considered, seems fair enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ruse deepens.

True to his word, David does his best to leave Silva be for the remainder of the day. It's not especially difficult: his schedule is overstuffed even on the lightest days, and after this morning's roller coaster there's more than enough to occupy his time. At noon, he fends off the first of who knows how many equivocations from Arbeloa about his book tour; immediately after, he suffers through an interminable meeting with HR about Sánchez's severance package.

 

Still, it does feel a bit strange to go about his day without the usual trickle of interjections and reminders from Silva. He makes a point of crossing past Silva's desk on his way to and from picking up lunch at the company cafeteria, but Silva's chair is empty both times. He hasn't even bothered to put out the "back in five minutes" sign that he procured from some hotel and started using last year after David left him two urgent voicemails during the course of a single bathroom break. David tells himself not to worry, and buries himself in work once more.

 

When Silva shows up at his door at four o'clock, he tries not to let his relief show -- there's no reason for David to reward his bad behavior.

 

"Hierro just called me. Mr. Gonzalez, Mr. del Bosque's friend will meet with us at the Madrid Civil Registry if we can get there in the next forty-five minutes." He doesn't seem any less angry at David, but at least he's decided to channel that anger into frosty professionalism, which, fine. David's spent the better part of fifteen years pissing off his coworkers. He can handle Silva's pique, easy.

 

Once they've managed to get across town and are sitting outside del Bosque's friend's office, however, it occurs to David that perhaps they should adopt a slightly warmer tone towards one another when pretending to be boyfriends.

 

He turns to tell Silva as much, when something catches his eye.

 

"Is that _glitter_ in your hair?"

 

"What?" Silva clamps his hand to the side of his head. "Of course not."

 

"No, it definitely is." David reaches out, snagging a lock of Silva's hair between his first two fingers. "You've got some in the underside of your collar, too -- what, did you go clubbing during your lunch break?"

 

Silva slaps his hand away. "Some of the other assistants decided to throw an impromptu party in the conference room, in honor of our engagement," he says. "Isco had a tub of loose glitter in his desk for some reason, so that they used that as confetti."

 

David snorts. "Of course he did. Hey, why wasn't I invited? It's my engagement, too."

 

"Because you're basically an asshole ninety-five percent of the time, and they're afraid you've Stockholmed me into falling in love with you?" Silva says. It doesn't look like he's joking.  "It was part engagement party, part psych eval."

 

David frowns. "You didn't tell them about --"

 

"I'm not an idiot, thanks," Silva says. "I told them your prickly exterior masks a warm, caring heart and a romantic soul."

 

"And they believed you?"

 

Silva shrugs. "I guess."

 

"You know," David says, "If this is gonna work, you're going to pretend that marrying me _isn't_ the worst thing that's ever happened to you. Just a thought."

 

"I know what I have to do," Silva says through gritted teeth.

 

"Then why can't you --"

 

But before David can press him further, the door swings open and a serious, dark-eyed man steps out. His sharp gaze sweeps over them both, cataloging everything: the incriminating distance between their bodies, the part of Silva's collar that was sticking up from where he'd tried to swipe away the glitter; the sour look on David's face that he was a split-second too slow to disguise.

 

"Gentlemen," Gonzalez says coolly. "If you'll follow me."

 

"Thank you for meeting with us at the last moment, sir," David says when they're settled in what is a surprisingly large office. He makes sure to angle his chair closer to Silva's, takes Silva's hand in his own.

 

"Señor del Bosque told me it was a matter of some urgency."

 

"Very urgent," David nods. At the minute furrowing of Gonzalez's brow, he hastens to add, "On account of the wedding, you know. It just seems, ah, more official if we're both citizens when we say, 'I do,' so if there are any papers I can sign today to get that started...."

 

David trails off, but Gonzalez makes no immediate move to fill the silence. When he does answer, David can see why he and del Bosque get along: his voice carries the same calm, self-assured authority of the man himself. "Before we discuss the timeframe of this process, there's one preliminary issue I'd like to address.

 

"Namely," he looks between them, "the possibility that this so-called relationship is a transparently illegal attempt by Mr. Villa to regularize his citizenship status in advance of receiving a prestigious national award."

 

David chokes on his breath. "What -- no!" he sputters. Silva's hand grips his own. "Of all the ludicrous, _slanderous_ \-- how did you even come up that?"

 

Gonzalez glances down at the open file on his desk. "We received a phone call an hour ago from a former employee named --"

 

"Let me guess: Alexis Sanchez." David grimaces. The man worked faster than a flesh-eating bacteria. If he'd been half as committed to his own job as he currently was to making sure David lost his, David never would have fired him in the first place. "He's a disgruntled individual acting out of a personal vendetta after being terminated. He's just desperate to ruin our relationship."

 

Gonzalez purses his lips slightly. "And how would you describe this relationship, Mr. Silva?"

 

David tries not to hold his breath.

 

"We're -- very happy together." There's a slight catch in Silva's words. He can tell Gonzalez has heard it too, but Silva gains confidence as he goes on, so it sounds more like normal jitters than hesitation to answer. "Obviously, today hasn't gone the way we would have planned, but in a way it's all for the best. It's been a real struggle to keep our relationship a secret at work -- the stress has been keeping David up at night, poor thing," Silva clucks, patting David's forearm.

 

"Now that it's all finally out, we're just looking forward to the future."

 

"Yes. Together." David removes Silva's hand from his arm, moving it to Silva's leg instead -- and then, after a moment's consideration, to his own leg, just above the knee.

 

Gonzalez watches them. He stands up behind his desk, leans forward, planting both hands on the wood panelling. Each gesture is perfectly controlled, almost martial in its economy.

 

"Gentlemen," he says. "Let us be sure we understand one another. I agreed to meet with you today out of respect for your employer, whom I know to be a man of upstanding character. However, my regard for Vicente del Bosque will not prevent me from reporting you to the relevant legal authorities if I discover that you have misrepresented yourselves -- especially if I find out you have taken advantage of him as well. Is that clear?"

 

David barely stops himself from mouthing off. Just what the day needed: a bureaucrat who thinks the flag hanging in front of his office makes him fucking Torquemada. He opens his mouth to say as much, but Silva beats him to it.

 

"Of course, sir," he says smoothly, in that same placating tone he uses on David after a long call with a difficult author or a grueling contract negotiation session. His fingers dig into David's leg.

 

Gonzalez looks at David, as if challenging him to keep pushing. But if there's one thing that David hates more than people condescending to him, it's people trying to predict what he'll do, so he just raises an eyebrow and tucks into Silva's side. He covers Silva's hand with his own.

 

After a long moment, Gonzalez sits back down. "Very well then," he says.

 

"This coming Monday, you will return to this office at ten o'clock for your official spousal citizenship intake interview. At that time, I will place you in separate rooms and ask you each a series of questions that any real couple would know about one another. I will also contact your friends and family, to confirm your stories -- I assume they're aware of your engagement."

 

"My parents and I are estranged," David says. He feels Silva give him a startled look; in the past, he'd purposely given the impression that they were dead, but there's nothing for it now. "I haven't spoken with them in seven years."

 

"And Mr. Silva?"

 

Silva hesitates.

 

"Actually," David says, thinking fast, "we're planning on telling them this weekend. The family is all getting together for Nana Silva's ninetieth birthday party, so we're going to surprise them with the news at the party."

 

Gonzalez scribbles a note in his file. "And where is this party being held?"

 

"...At Silva's parent's house, of course."

 

"Which is where, exactly?"

 

Shit. "Actually, _babe_ , why don't you tell him about it -- you know I hate to monopolize the conversation like this."

 

"Arguineguín," Silva says calmly. "On Gran Canaria."

 

David bites back a swear and ends up coughing on his own spit. Silva pounds him on the back, hard.

 

"Dust allergies," he croaks out,

holding up a hand.

 

"Evidently," Gonzalez says. "Well, it has certainly been -- interesting meeting you gentlemen. I look forward to seeing you both on Monday for what I'm sure will be an _enlightening_ interview."

 

He escorts them to the door, and shakes both their hands once more -- using what David suspects is a bit more force than necessary, in his case.

 

"Oh, and one last thing," Gonzalez adds, almost casually, "Just so you're both aware: if I do find out that you have entered into a fraudulent conspiracy, you, Mr. Villa will be deported immediately and permanently barred from re-entering Spain, while Mr. Silva will be subject to criminal prosecution and a maximum of three to five years in prison.

 

"Have a good weekend."

 

\--

 

"Well," David says, once they're out of the building and down the street, "that didn't go as badly as it could have. I mean, it was a little touch-and-go at first, but we handled it. Now, when we get back to the office, we need to take care of the booking. Look for an Iberian flight so we can use my miles, but only if there's room in business class; I haven't flown coach in a decade and I'm not about to...."

 

Belatedly, David realizes that Silva isn't beside him anymore. He's sitting on a park bench five paces back, head buried in his hands. David sighs, retraces his steps.

 

"What's gotten into you?"

 

Silva looks up, his cartoon-deer eyes bleak. "I can't do this."

 

"What?" David sinks down next to him. "What are you talking about?"

 

"Weren't you listening in there? If we get caught -- "

 

"We won't get caught."

 

"But if we _did_. I mean, screw our jobs -- you'd be deported and I'd go to _jail_!" He groans, raking a hand through his hair. His shoulders are trembling.

 

Moved by an instinct he doesn't understand, David catches Silva's hand and takes it between both of his own.

 

"Listen to me very carefully," he says, slow and serious. "You will not go to jail for this. I promise."

 

"That's not something you can promise," Silva says, which is both true and completely irrelevant, as far as David's concerned.

 

"I'm David Villa," he says. "Just watch me."

 

\--

 

"Would you care to repeat that?"

 

The flight attendant gulps audibly at David's tone. His hands shake on the drinks tray. "Due to a mix-up with the ground service crew at Barajas, we unfortunately don't have any alcoholic beverages on this flight?"

 

David allows his facial expression to respond for him.

 

The flight attendant (David refuses to read his name tag as a matter of principle) pales further. "We're very sorry for the inconvenience, sir. May I offer you a soft drink and a voucher for a free drink on your next flight?"

 

"We'll take two sparkling waters, please," Silva says, leaning across David and flashing a sympathetic grin. "Sorry about him -- he's a bit of a scaredy cat when it comes to flying."

 

The flight attendant gives a shaky smile. "Of course, sir. Coming right up."

 

"I know it goes against your basic operating protocols," Silva says once the flight attendant has moved on, "but you cannot insult and antagonize everyone you meet this weekend."

 

"Oh please -- like you're not dying for a drink right now." He gestures to Silva's boarding pass, which he's been folding and unfolding since takeoff.

 

Silva drops the worn-out piece of paper, crosses his arms. "If I had a drink every time being around you made me want one, my liver would have failed years ago."

 

"Now there's a harbinger of a long and happy marriage. Speaking of," David digs into his briefcase and pulls out a thick binder. "We've got homework to do for Monday."

 

Silva's eyes go wide when he sees the logo on the spine: Madrid Civil Registry, Citizenship and Immigration Office. "Where did you get that?"

 

"Relax, it's nothing classified, just the standard set of questions people use to study for their interview. And Pepe hooked me up."

 

Silva drums his fingers on the cover. "Is this like the time he 'hooked you up' with those David Guetta tickets from his cousin?"

 

"It was an Enrique Iglesias concert, and you're just jealous, because it was _amazing_ \-- and no, it's all above board, I swear."

 

Last night, David had been drinking in front of a half-packed suitcase, trying to decide which bespoke black suit best said "respectable future son-in-law" when his building's intercom buzzed at around ten thirty. A glance at the camera revealed a familiar bald head; after a moment's debate, David hit the button to let him in

 

He undid the chain lock, but only opened the door halfway. "Hey."

 

Pepe pushed at the door. "Let me in, _pendejo_ \- I come in the name of brotherhood and reconciliation. I even brought a peace offering." He held up a bulging plastic bag, tendrils of fragrant steam rising from its depths.

 

David's mouth watered. He he hadn't eaten since lunch. "Is that from that hole-in-the-wall joint in Lavapies?" he said, trying to sound disinterested and failing badly.

 

Where else," Pepe said and shouldered past him.

 

True to his word, they ate in comfortable silence, splitting a bottle of Rioja and watching a highlights show about the latest round of Europa League fixtures.

 

In the end, it was David who broached the subject. "Silva and I met with Del Bosque's man this afternoon."

 

"Gonzalez?"

 

"Yeah. You know him?"

 

"Met him once or twice. So you're really going through with it, then."

 

David nodded. "Listen, the thing you have to know about me and Silva is --"

 

Pepe stopped him. "Pretty sure the less I know, the better."

 

"Yeah. Probably." David took a long swig of his wine to wash away the strange moment of guilt at not being able to share the whole story with him. "Gonzalez'll probably want to interview you. Said he was going to reach out to people to try and corroborate our stories. Friends, family, coworkers. Exes."

 

The last word stopped Pepe cold, empanada frozen halfway to his mouth. "So are you gonna tell --"

 

"He's not an ex," David snapped, less out of anger than at fatigue over a subject they'd covered a thousand times. "And I already took care of it."

 

At Pepe's continuing stare, David relented. "Okay, I left him a voicemail. That counts!"

 

Pepe rolled his eyes and popped the empanada into his mouth. "The sad thing is," he said, crumbs spraying everywhere, "for you, that's actually true."

 

"Yeah, yeah, thanks," David groused, and refilled both their glasses.

 

It wasn't until the end of the night that Pepe reached over into his briefcase and pulled out the binder. "Brought you something else," he said, handing it over. "Should help with your interview."

 

David flipped open to the title page. "Oh wow, yeah, this is awesome. Thanks, man."

 

Pepe's expression still made it clear what he thought of the whole endeavor, but he just patted David on the shoulder. "Call it an engagement present," he said. "And be careful with him."

 

"Gonzalez? I can handle him, easy."

 

But Pepe shook his head. His face was as serious as David had ever seen it. "I mean, be careful with Silva."

 

David hadn't known what to make of Pepe's caution, but he didn't press the issue, wary of starting another fight. Now, as he watches Silva leaf through the binder, brow scrunching up to form that familiar crease just above the bridge of his nose, he's even more sure that Pepe was just letting his legalistic training get in the way of his common sense. Of all the myriad ways that everything could go shit-sideways in the next few days, Silva is pretty much the only certainty David has. With his dream job on the line to entice him, and Gonzalez's ham-fisted Inspector Javert routine providing a bit of urgency, Silva is in almost as deep as David now. Whatever happens, happens to both of them.

 

"Here." Silva interrupts David's tactical reverie by hefting the not-inconsequential binder back into David's lap. "You better keep this for now."

 

David shoves it back across the seat divider. "We both need to study this shit."

 

"Yeah," Silva says, "but the difference is, I already know most of the answers about you."

 

"Really." David flips to a page at random. "You know where I went to school."

 

"Please -- you just had me edit your biography, remember?" Silva grins. "You did your _Licenciatura_ in literature at the Universidad de Zaragoza, plus an advanced degree in business at the Universitat de València."

 

"With honors."

 

"Oh, right, I'm so sorry," Silva says, with a little chuckle that makes his cheeks glow and the back of David's neck prickle, weirdly. "Ask me another."

 

He's enjoying himself for the first time since they started any of this. David figures the least he can do is humor him. "Favorite color."

 

"Green."

 

"Favorite food."

 

"Patatas bravas -- but you pretend it's filet mignon when you want to sound sophisticated, and fabada when you want to remind people you're not a Madrileño." Before David can protest, Silva adds, "I process all your client lunch receipts to finance, remember?"

 

David rolls his eyes. "Favorite television program."

 

"Anything showing football highlights with commentators who aren't as smart as you."

 

Silva can really be a cheeky little shit sometimes.

 

"Why do you even know all this stuff, anyway? Haven't you ever heard of professional boundaries?"

 

Silva's laugh comes out meaner than before. "That's rich, considering."

 

"That's not." David shoots a glance to make sure they're not being overheard. "This is a special situation."

 

"You once made me go to your apartment in the middle of the day and search your closet for a pair of leopard print basketball shoes!"

 

"Which I wore to a meeting with Pau Gasol's agent where I basically performed a minor miracle and got us the rights to his autobiography, and earned the company millions of euros, and was a fucking hero, yeah, I remember. I still don't see why that means you know how many tattoos I have."

 

"Actually," Silva says thoughtfully, "I'm not sure you do have any."

 

"Oh yeah?"

 

Silva's smile fades, replaced with a look of determination. He leans in, studies David quietly for a moment. That neck thing comes back.

 

"I don't think so," he says at last.

 

David swallows. "You sure?"

 

Silva gives a little considering hum, almost a purr. "Well, every year, you make a whole production about flu season and insist I get the shot so I don't 'derail our agenda by turning into a walking mucus factory'…. But then you always find an excuse to back out when I make an appointment for you too, which makes me think you don't like needles--"

 

David shoves the binder back at him. "You're a freak." He scratches the back of his neck, wishes again for something to drink.

 

"So I'm right." Silva's hand flexes on the book's spine, a competitive gleam in his eye.

 

David just sniffs. "Start filling out your answers," he says. "And I am _locking_ the door to my hotel room tonight."

 

The roar of the jet engines as they start to descend over Las Palmas doesn't quite cover up Silva's snickers.

 

\--

 

Upon arrival, Silva goes and makes a call, while David picks up his suitcase from baggage claim. (Unlike some people, he's not about to announce his engagement with only a carry-on bag and 100 mL worth of hair product -- he's not a _savage_.)

 

He checks his phone, thinking maybe he there'll be a reply to his voicemail from last night, but all he gets is an update from the temp covering Silva's desk, and a series of emails from Arbeloa with more melodramatic vacillations over the book tour. Blah blah, relationship issues, blah blah blah. In one of them, the guy actually compares himself to Leonidas, on the verge of his own personal Thermopylae.

 

"Fucking nerds," David mutters to himself, and shoots off a single-line reply: _Η ΤΑΝ Η ΕΠΙ ΤΑΣ._

 

When he looks up, Silva's back, a cup of coffee in each hand.

 

"The place still standing without you?" he asks, handing one over.

 

"Barely." David takes a sip, and sighs. Black, one sugar. "God, I knew there was a reason I was marrying you."

 

He means it as a joke, but Silva gets a funny look on his face.

 

"Come on," he says. "The next bus is leaving soon."

 

It's another forty kilometers on a bumpy, overcrowded tourist shuttle to Arguineguín. David spends most of the ride staring out the window, watching as they cut a narrow path between the low hills and the sea. It's not exactly the most picturesque countryside, arid and scrubby, but there's something compelling in the way the midday sun bakes and burnishes the earth. It suits Silva, somehow.

 

Silva sits beside him on a shallow bench seat. At first, every turn jostles them into one another, Silva's right knee sliding against the outside of David's left thigh. But as the ride goes on, he gets tenser and tenser. By the time they turn off the highway, he's ramrod straight, eyes fixed at a spot above the driver's head.

 

David thinks about taking Silva's hand again, like he did yesterday at the park, but Silva's got his hands clenched tightly together in his lap. He bumps their shoulders together instead. "When was the last time you saw your family?" he asks.

 

"They came to Madrid over Christmas." Silva doesn't look at him, but his mouth softens a little at the memory. "I told you I had food poisoning so I could spend an extra two days with them."

 

David graciously sets that particular betrayal aside. "You guys are close?"

 

Silva's face falls again. "Yeah."

 

"Then don't worry -- they're obviously going to be happy to see you."

 

"It's not me I'm worried about," Silva says, and you know what, fine. David was trying to be a good guy, get Silva's mind off the whole thing, but if he wants to sulk and be catty, that's certainly his prerogative. Serves David right for making an effort.

 

The rest of the mercifully short ride passes in silence between the two of them. By the time they pull up to the bus station in Arguineguín, all David wants is a long, hot shower and a tall, strong drink. They stand together in what little shade the bus provides from the midday sun, waiting for the bus driver to finish unloading their bags.

 

"There's supposed to be a car meeting us," David says. He chose the hotel himself, although Silva had offered to take care of that too. Lying to a bunch of strangers about being in love with Silva was going to be enough of a challenge -- he wasn't about to try and attempt it without a good night's sleep on at least 700 thread-count sheets.

 

"You're sure you told them one o'clock?" Silva picks at his nails, his face pinched into that same worried frown.

 

David catches his hand, pulls it away from his lips. "I'm sure. The concierge said it was only a ten minute ride away, and they had the schedule."

 

"Ten minutes…" Silva's eyes go wide. He draws a sharp breath. His hand locks around David's, viselike.

 

"Villa," he says very slowly, "where, exactly, did you book us."

 

"What the hell!" David pulls his hand back, shaking out his fingers. "I don't know, the Palacio something or other? It had a woman's name, let me check --"

 

"The Palacio Antonia Jiménez." He says it like David's booked them both rooms in Guantanamo Bay. "Mother of God, Villa, fuck, why didn't you --"

 

"David!"

 

Silva's gaze jerks over David's shoulder -- his mouth drops. David turns to look.

 

Two people are walking over to them, waving wildly: the women, about Silva's age; and a young man, his hair cut in a deeply unfortunate and deeply familiar bowl cut.

 

Beside him, David gives a little noise, gut-punched, but David could have picked them out as Silva's siblings based on their resemblance alone.

 

"Is this who you called when we landed?" he asks Silva. "We could have just met up with them later."

 

But Silva doesn't answer, doesn't give any indication that he's heard David at all. Instead he gives a little cry and drops his bag, rushes over to span the distance between them in mere seconds. He hugs each of his siblings in turn, which then spirals out into a group embrace that sweeps them all up as one.

 

David comes up behind them, dragging his wheeled suitcase. Silva's crouched down slightly, his face pressed against his sister's neck. He's whispering something, but David can't hear what he's saying.

 

There's an unwelcome lump in David's throat, watching the way their family knits back together, seamlessly. He swallows, just trying to clear it, but the sound catches Silva's attention, and he looks up sharply.

 

"Guys," he says, disentangling himself. "I want you to meet someone. This is David Villa."

 

He comes and stands beside David, folding their hands together. David squeezes his palm -- he means it to be an apology for interrupting, but Silva must take it as a rebuke, because he adds, "My, ah, boyfriend."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Villa's Greek reply is a Spartan saying: "With your shield, or on it." It was said by Spartan mothers to their sons as they left for war, and prescribed the only acceptable outcomes: victory, or an honorable death.
> 
> \--
> 
> Sorry this took a million trillion years to update -- it's [acchikocchi's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi) birthday again, so I felt like I owed her the next bit of her gift. Hopefully it won't take me another year to write chapter three!

**Author's Note:**

> this is an in-progress birthday fic for my darling mer, aka [acchikocchi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi/pseuds/acchikocchi), who is not only awesome and lovely, but also the only person on earth who could ever get me to write fic about david villa. i'm posting the first bit now, both as a present for her after a really hard few months and as motivation for myself to keep writing. 
> 
> my apologies to poor alexis sánchez, whom i've come to like a lot more since he's left barcelona. i'm sorry your nationality and positional rivalry with dv were too convenient to resist!
> 
> most of the next chapter is already written, so i'll post that as soon as i can. future installations will feature various other spaniards and players of other nationalities in supporting roles and secondary relationships -- if you know mer (or me), you can probably guess who's on deck. ;)


End file.
